


Collision

by mangledyarn



Category: Closer (2004), James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Closer meets Sherlock meets Skyfall, Don't Try This At Home, Dysfunctional Relationships, Everyone Has Issues, Infidelity, It's For a Case, James Bond is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Moriarty is implied, Multiple Crossovers, Odd AUs, Pre-Reichenbach, sex worker sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangledyarn/pseuds/mangledyarn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John's eyes catch on his, snagging on the soft smirk of a stranger in a crowd, and he can't look away. For a moment, they see each other."</p><p>Following the narrative of Closer (2004), but also loyal to the events of Sherlock and Skyfall, John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes on the streets of London. Then he meets Q on a case, which... is a complication. Q and Bond meet thanks to John, who lives to regret it. All tangled up together, it's not clear whether truth and love ever have something to do with each other. </p><p>(Note: You don't need to be familiar with each property to read it, but it will likely inspire you to check out Closer if you haven't yet/recently. Check out the end notes if you want more information.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's an accident. A collision that comes out of nowhere. John's eyes catch on his, snagging on the soft smirk of a stranger in a crowd, and he can't look away. For a moment, they see each other.

Then he steps off.

Words of warning are flying from John's mouth as the man's body crumples and rolls, thrown back by a cab. In the space of a heartbeat, John is pushing through the crowd of bystanders, is standing over him, crouching, checking for a pulse. Something sounds like gunfire, but it must just be his heart.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Sorry?" John freezes, and then leans down closer. He must have misheard him. His lips barely moved, but they moved.

The man opens his eyes, that same aquamarine that mesmerized him, and John stops breathing. He tells himself it’s relief.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry how did you... Are you..."

But the cabbie is rounding on them, shouting profanity at the man, and his eyes fall shut as he goes limp again. John moves a dark curl from the man's forehead and glares at the cabbie.

"You're lucky you didn't kill him."

"He wasn't even looking, just walked right off –"

"Well, now you have a man lying in front of your cab, so why don't you drop us off at a clinic and we can all be on with our day?"

The cabbie hesitates and the fallen man grabs John's wrist, the movement shielded from the cabbie's view by the man's black coat. John glances down, tilts his head and sighs. Recalling the expression he uses whenever he expects his orders to be followed, he looks back up at the cabbie, a withered grey fellow in a funny cap.

"My flat's just around the corner. Drop us there and we'll call it even."

It is fascinating to watch the man observe without ever really opening his eyes. In the cab, the shamming is only more obvious to John, but there is nothing fake about his awful scrape from knee to shin. The man moans and plays up his incoherence only until the cabbie has been forced to help John carry him up the narrow, dirty stairs to his little beige flat. The minute the cabbie closes the door, the man sits straight up, eyes bright and his mouth curling into a grin.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes." John goes to fetch his med kit, although he isn't eager to leave this stranger alone in his flat. Fortunately the man only looks thoughtful when he returns kit in hand.

"Any good?"

"Very good," John says as he unpacks supplies. He's done a lot more than cleaning up a scrape in a lot worse conditions than his own flat.

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

"Mmhmm." He bends down to examine the wound more closely, cloth and antiseptic in hand.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John stumbles over the kind of words that he wants to say. He doesn't need to play wounded soldier for this man and yet he finds himself feeling vulnerable. Watched. "What do you do then?"

"I'm a consulting detective. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, or someone needs a detective to stop at nothing to solve a case, they call me," he says and he can't seem to keep a smirk off of his face as he leans down closer to John. "Look at your little eyes."

"I can't see my eyes."

"You can hardly see what's right in front of you."

"I'm not the one who walked out in front of a cab."

"Because I needed him to stop for me." The man pulls back to lounge in the chair.

"Most people would have just hailed the cab and got in the regular way."

"I'm not most people. Thank god, or I never would have gotten this." He holds up the cabbie's wallet and begins to rifle through it.

"Hey now, what's that?"

"Looks very much like a family photo. Far from recent. Treasured but poorly preserved. Several key receipts from three different pharmacies. Among other things."

"You can't just take a man's wallet."

"And yet I just have. It's certainly shed some light on the case. Very useful. May I borrow your phone?" The man stands abruptly, forcing John back on his heels, and begins pacing through the small flat. John can't help but watch, starting from the scrapes he has been trying to mend and moving up until we he is staring at the man's face.

"Er, here." He digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and hands it to the man, who barely stops pacing to take it. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second at the point of exchange and John feels the same captivation that first drew his attention on the street, but then the man breaks the connection to begin texting. John awkwardly busies himself re-ordering his medical kit, but listens for the man to finish.

"You have a girlfriend, a linguist."

John doesn't see any way that he could have come to this conclusion except by reading his text messages, which is rather rude, but he also doesn't see any reason to denying it at this point.

"Yes. Mary."

"Boring." He waves a dismissive hand, but John hardly has time to be offended on her behalf before the man continues. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? We should know the worst about each other if we're to live together."

"Live together? We’ve only just met. We don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name."

"I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, considering you dropped your cane the minute I stepped off that curb."

John looks down at his empty hand and then his bum leg, mouth open and eyes wide. He didn’t notice himself drop it in his rush to get to the man on the street. He hadn't missed it for a second as he helped the man up two flights of stairs.

"That... was extraordinary."

The man stops pacing.

"Do you think so?"

"Of course it was."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

"Thank god I'm not normal then," John says with a cheeky grin that the man returns for a brief moment before John's mobile buzzes. He reaches over, checks the message and tosses the phone to John.

"The game is on!" He claps and John can only watch as he suddenly disappears through the door of his flat, back the way he'd come. John is about to take a breath when a dark head of curls pops back around the door.

"The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. When she leaves you, you know where to look." And then he winks and he is truly gone, pulling out all of the air in the room with him.

It wasn't an accident.


	2. Chapter 2

"I like your blog."

The compliment is welcome, if still unexpected. John is standing inside a spyware boutique in a corner of London he never would have found without Sherlock's pointed but impeccable directions. The man behind the counter is not so different from the man who sent him, but the similarities are rather superficial: similar hair, colouring and build is not so very rare. The young inventor who introduced himself as Q – also the name on the storefront – has his own version of assurance: less high nosed arrogance and more quiet knowing smiles. They look good on him.

"Thank you. It's always good to meet a fan." John has noticed the growing following and has (unsuccessfully) tried to hide his pride from Sherlock. He doesn't understand why John needs the blog when there is his website and John has given up trying to explain.

"When is your next post going up? You haven't much of a set schedule." Q has been tinkering behind the counter as John wandered about, a screen always between them, but now he is looking his way.

"When we finish this next case, I suppose."

"I was up 'till four last night reading the archives.” He says this to his screen, so John allows himself a smile.

"Well, I'm flattered."

"Is Sherlock Holmes really that brilliant?"

"Yes."

"And how does he feel about the blog?" He looks over to John, who turns away, pretending an interest in one of the tablets.

"It gets us clients."

"I see," Q pauses and John is certain that the man read more between the lines than he intended to reveal.

"Do you have anything new you're developing? Sherlock is quite interested in what you're doing with surveillance."

"I have a product launch next year. You should come to the reveal. Both of you. See what my new projects can offer."

"Any hints?"

"None. You'll have to wait with the rest." The curve of his mouth seems to tease and John's curiosity rustles under his skin.

"Sherlock's not much for waiting I'm afraid."

"You'll have to have extra patience for him, then," Q says, rounding the counter to pick up the tablet that John was eyeing. John finds his eyes clinging to slim wrists rather than his product demonstration. Q’s fingers dance across the screen as he tries to show off his incredible image identification and reconstruction software. John blinks and swallows.

"Did you take those yourself? All those photos of famous paintings for comparison." It's an inane question, not at all what John wants to know, but it shifts Q out of entrepreneur inventor mode.

"I would like have liked to, but one doesn't really have the time. I just asked the galleries I visited for access to their records. They have to thoroughly document each piece they curate."

"So you like hanging out in galleries, then." God, he is rusty.

"I appreciate art that doesn't have pixels on occasion."

"Any favorites?" John feels them both leaning closer, as if they are trying to get some privacy in the empty boutique, and Q puts down the tablet.

"When I'm sick of all of my projects, which happens more often than I'd like, I go sit in front of The Fighting Temeraire at the National Gallery. It's a good place to think."

"Don't people bother you?" John lets his body move to face him, to slot into place a little closer and a little more impossible to turn away from. Q doesn't hesitate to meet his gaze.

"Rarely."

"Do I bother you?" The words are soft. Q is hardly more than two feet away.

"No."

"It's just, your pulse. Sherlock has this idea – I just mean..." John can see the thrum of his heart through the thin skin of his neck, but that isn't what he wants to say. He doesn't want to think about what Sherlock might deduct from this. He reaches out instead. "Come here."

"Why?" Q says, even as he steps forward to let John take his hand. John pulls him closer, all the way until he can cradle Q's neck in his palm. Two fingers check his pulse out of habit and something in his mind is counting. John knows what he's seeing without the calculations. He strokes his cheek.

"You're beautiful."

The space between them ceases to matter. Their mouths follow their own gaze and meet. It's the only honest thing he can do. Their lips press and tongues brush, soft but insistent. A quiet moan slips from Q and John presses closer, memorizing that sound. His mouth tastes of Earl Grey as Q pulls back, their heads still pressed together, and John's hand tangles in Q's hair.

"Are you and Sherlock really together?"

"No. Yes. No." John licks his lips nervously as Q pulls himself from his arms.

"Which is it?" He's turned away now, heading back behind the counter, and John knows that this explanation requires eye contact. He follows him into the back room.

"We are— What we are is complicated. He needs me."

"Do you need him?"

"Not right now."

"Then isn't that your answer?" Q looks over his shoulder and John wishes he had a better excuse.

"Sherlock can be a complete git but... He's completely unleaveable."

"You just don't want anyone to replace you at his side. Can't stand the thought of it. Missing out on his adventures." 

"I told you, it's complicated –"

"Men are shit."

"All the same –"

"They're still shit." Q is already leaving before the bell rings announcing a new customer. "Your detective."

"I'm buggered."

"Nothing to do with me."

They both emerge from the back room with hastily neutral expressions that John doesn't even bother to hope will suffice.

"Sorry to interrupt," Sherlock says, and John winces but Q pretends not to hear the arch in his voice.

"No, we've just finished."

"Does he have what we need?" Sherlock ignores Q and crowds John instead.

"You should ask him yourself. He's one of your lot."

"My lot?"

"Brilliant. I hardly know what it all means."

"Not exactly a high bar," Sherlock says and moves to appraise Q.

It is Sherlock at his most imperious. John can read a visit with Mycroft in his shoulders and jaw, but the angle of his chin says that he isn't afraid of what just happened in the back room. Of course he knows. In comparison, John's own deductions are simple, but they are vital to understanding this man.

"Quintin Rothwell, better known as Q. I must admit I was disappointed to miss your last product demonstration. I find your work well above the typical idiocy of surveillance firms or startups. Again, not a high bar, and yet few still manage it."

"I'd be flattered if I thought that was the point. What can I do for you Mr. Holmes?"

"I have a contact who tells me that you have software that will piggyback undetected on London's CCTV and complete a real time image recognition search with greater accuracy than anything else currently available." Q doesn't say anything, but Sherlock continues as if he has. "My present case requires just this technology."

"Your contact must have also mentioned that it isn't available for the general public quite yet."

"It is a matter of personal pride that I am as far from the general public as possible."

"We're looking for a kidnapper. He has at least two children and he seems to be keen on a third," John says and Q finally meets his eyes again. "Time is rather of the essence."

"Then I suppose it can't wait for the big reveal. Give us a minute," Q says, but Sherlock just follows him into the back room and John is only a step behind. 

Q produces a thin, silver laptop from a safe and places it on the small work table in front of Sherlock. Entering the password, he clicks a few keys to open up a sleek program and steps back with a wave of his hand.

"At your service, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock doesn't bother to be gracious as he steps forward and gets to work. Q bites his lip and turns away, going to keep an eye on the front of the store. John follows him back out, knowing when he's not needed, and they get some distance from the detective who is already lost to the world in his work.

"He is beautiful."

"Don't be that way about it," John says softly, getting as near as he dares. Sherlock has a habit of simply appearing. "I've got to see you."

"I don't want trouble."

"I'm not trouble."

"I read the blog, John," Q reminds him with a chuckle and John purses his lips.

"I've got to see you."

"That's unfortunate."

"You kissed me."

"What are you, twelve?"

"John," Sherlock's voice seems to boom after their hissed whispers. He is standing the doorway, looking them both over. "I need you to go interview the neighbour for the second victim."

"Mrs. Wormwood again?"

"She lied to us the first time, so yes, it would be best to have another go. I'll meet you at Baker Street later tonight."

"You're staying here?"

"Obviously. It takes more than four minutes to go through this amount of surveillance, no matter the technology." John is less than willing to leave them alone together, but there's nothing for it. Just standing around mooning while children are missing would be rather useless of him.

"Right, well. Right then." He coughs and pulls back. "Good luck with your launch next year." He feels like he's supposed to do something with his hands. 

"Good luck with the case." 

Sherlock scoffs at this and seems impatient to return to the Work. John looks from one man to the other and nods a final goodbye, feeling like he is walking away from a lit bomb. He winces as he closes the shop door behind him.

Q tidies and tries to ignore the alien in his space using his tech, but it's impossible not to take a position over Sherlock's shoulder. He is watching his own work in motion. This is what it is supposed to be used for. It is enough to watch for nearly an hour before Q is forced to speak his mind.  

"You aren't what I expected. From the blog. I somehow thought you'd be less..." 

"What?" Sherlock doesn't look up from the screen, but his body becomes even more still. Q considers his options before he speaks. 

"Awful."

"Awful?" 

"I thought you'd be more kind. To John, at least." Q is already regretting saying anything, but someone must. His guilty conscience is acting out in strange ways. Sherlock pauses the search, making Q raise his eyebrows, and turns to face him. 

"You seem reasonably intelligent. You've read the blog."

"Yes." Q refuses to be intimidated. 

"Then you know enough to know that he's not worth pursuing. Your concern for the state of our relationship will get you nowhere. John occasionally fancies himself in love, sometimes even for months, but he always ends up with me when it matters."

"Thank you for the warning, Mr. Holmes," Q says, his face displaying exactly none of his embarrassment.

"This is me being kind, Q," Sherlock pronounces each word crisply. "You do not wish to see me when I am not."

"I'm sure."

"I'm glad you understand me."

"Perfectly."

Sherlock resumes the search. Q watches in silence. 


	3. Chapter 3

Grindr

 

007: Hello stranger 

armydoc: hi

007: new face. like your profile. no pic tho

armydoc: 1st time. a little shy

007: a virgin. welcome to hell 

armydoc: I hear good things 

007: been lied to then

armydoc: can't find a good shag?

007: hope springs eternal 

armydoc: [Picture sent. A shot from a distance, a dark silhouette, but detailed enough to make out the lines of his body] 

armydoc: that make you hopeful?

007: maybe. you a real army doctor?

armydoc: more army slut 

007: nothing wrong with that

armydoc: you?

007: does it matter? not on here for small talk 

armydoc: meet me. no small talk. promise.

007: when?

armydoc: tomorrow. 2pm. national gallery then hotel.

007: bit high brow for a shag.

armydoc: be waiting by the Fighting Temeraire.

007: what a gentleman

armydoc: I try ;) 

007: I'll be there

 

~~~

 

It is exactly like he had said. The right time, the right painting, the right posture even. James sees his back first and appreciates the opportunity of the first glance without being observed. He tries not to visibly relish the approach from behind, but he never regrets having the upper hand.

The man seems younger than he'd imagined, but he looks like a mix of soft and sharpened edges, which is about right. James stands at his shoulder and coughs softly to announce his presence, although he would rather place a hand on the curve between neck and shoulder.

"What do you think?" James says, expecting the man to turn and face him. He straightens his shoulders, but his audience is still looking at the painting.

"It always makes me feel a bit melancholy. Grand old war ship, being ignominiously haunted away to scrap... The inevitability of time, don't you think?" His voice is something smooth you drink neat. It surprises him, but pleasantly. He doesn't see enough pleasant surprises. "What do you see?"

"A bloody big ship." He sits next to him and leans over, careful not to be overheard. "And I think this counts as small talk. How about that hotel, hmm? I have a few lovely ideas for you."

"I'm sorry, did we meet somewhere?" He finally turns his eyes to James and his brows are furrowed behind his glasses. His confusion seems almost practiced in its polish.

"I don't really have time for games. You were up for it yesterday –"

"Neither do I. I think you have me confused with someone else." There is a shift in the performance, a moment of anger slipping through reserve. Seeing it is like finding an edge. James stops. He reevaluates. He leans back.

"Why do I feel like a pervert?"

"I think you're a victim of a practical joke."

"My apologies." He steps back.

"That's okay." The man turns away. James pauses and then steps forward again. Something doesn't add up. He needs to know how he is being made a fool. Clearly that is what is going on.

"No, no, we talked on Grindr last night. You're him."

"I'm quite certain I would have noticed." The reserve is back.

"Where were you between 6:45 and 7:00pm?"

"That is hardly any business of yours, is it? Where were you?"

"Talking to you."

Q shakes his head, a rueful smile now lingering on his lips. James keeps his impulses on a tight leash.

"Well I was talking to someone."

"Someone pretending to be me," he says dryly and then suddenly appears to be at least a little apologetic, "and I think I know who. You were talking to John Watson."

"Do you want me to kill him for you. Or for me?"

"He's just someone I know. Harmless really." Q shakes his head, but James doesn't appreciate only half a story. Incomplete intelligence gets people killed.

"Is he in love with you then?"

"I don't know. No. He just thinks he likes me."

"And are you?"

"In love with him? I hardly know him. We met once." He looks back to the painting again and James shakes his head.

"You're sort of interested."

"I think he's interesting. It's not the same."

"Interesting is one word for it. Why can't he just send you flowers?" James laughs and their eyes truly meet. The man laughs too and there isn't any part of aloof in his expression now.

"I haven't the slightest. What did he send me instead? I don't believe you've introduced yourself yet."

"Bond. James Bond."


	4. Chapter 4

John watches himself in the mirror. He is trying to look like he is just tying his tie. He is trying to school his face into something that Sherlock won't read immediately. It feels futile, but Sherlock is also in the middle of a case and has the exceptional ability to ignore him entirely. 

"Why must you insist that we attend this 'reveal'?" Sherlock is sprawled across the sofa, still in his blue dressing gown and pajama bottoms.

"You said that you were disappointed to miss the last one." 

"I was being kind."

"You weren't." John pauses to raise an eyebrow at Sherlock, who gestures indignantly up to the ceiling.  

"I can be kind!"

John goes back to his tie, shaking his head.

"When it suits you. Get up. We have to be there for 8pm."

"I'm waiting for you." 

"To do what?"

"Leave me." John's head snaps over to Sherlock, whose eyes are focused entirely on him. Heat flushes his face and any hope of going unseen is driven from his mind. He forces himself to turn away, futzing with his dress shoes and feeling half peeled. 

"What are you talking about?"

"The funeral." It clicks. John is shouting before he can even turn back to face Sherlock. 

"Christ Sherlock, it's a funeral!"

"You didn't even like your Aunt Ethel, who no doubt liked you best when you were off being shot at in Afghanistan, and we have a case!" He's on his feet now, his dressing gown swinging as he paces. 

"You said it yourself, it's barely a 7.5. You took it because Mrs. Hudson threatened to throw us out if you kept shooting the walls. You'll be fine without me." John throws the tie on the counter and tosses empty mugs into the sink. The sound of their clatter is the thing keeping him from strangling Sherlock. 

"She'd never."

"Don't tempt her."

"What if I came?" Suddenly Sherlock is standing behind him. John places his hands carefully on the countertop, afraid of what they might do. It could be anything. 

"What?"

"What if I attended the funeral? Went for... moral support." Sherlock's cough in the middle of the sentence makes John lick his lips, but he doesn't turn around. He knows that Sherlock is weaving a spell over him. He has always been a siren he can't ignore. 

"Why... why, would you. Do something like that?"

"I can be kind, John." His voice is soft. John's smile is softer.

"When it suits you."

"You suit me." Sherlock's hand falls on John's shoulder, which hitches high at the touch. He tries to cover the wince, but he needn't bother. He cannot hide from this man. He turns around.

"Sherlock..." He looks to Sherlock's left shoulder, where the dressing gown has fallen down. It's the closest he can get to meeting his gaze. "I appreciate the... sentiment. But I'd rather go alone."

"Why?" Something has snapped. John feels it in the way Sherlock's words hit his skin. 

"To grieve. To think." 

"Do I embarrass you?" Sherlock says "embarrass" with a depth of scorn that he typically reserves for the most pathetic specimen of the human race. Of course he finds embarrassment a sin, a dull emotion. Beneath him. 

"Do I embarrass you?" John shoulders past him to pick up the tie again, feeling like a child for failing to accomplish this little task. He can do it. It just doesn't ever look right.

"Is that a response or just rhetorical?" Sherlock is behind him again, but now John can see his face in the mirror. 

"We have to go. Get dressed." It is easier to issue orders when he looks away. 

"Here, let me." Sherlock reaches over his shoulder to pull the tie from his hands. John frowns and tries to resist, but the silk slides out from between his fingers too easily. 

"No, I can –"

"John." Sherlock meets his eyes in the mirror. Aquamarine, bright, wide enough to be soft. There is enough gentleness there for John to let go. His shoulders drop. He sighs and he nods.

"Thank you."

 

~~~

 

Sherlock is busying himself observing the crowd more than the technology. The people are as shiny as the hardware – perspiring nerds and executives practically spitting all over themselves in their enthusiasm. Sherlock does not hide his sneer. 

"What do you think?" The voice comes from behind, but he recognizes it. He has done two rounds of the exhibition space as he waits for John to be satisfied. He has checked his phone every 3.7 minutes for the last twenty.

"Dull." 

"For the Great Sherlock Holmes, perhaps. What is your verdict for the rest of us?" James Bond is smiling but the expression has a layer of frost. It is an iceberg. There is something about the man that makes Sherlock turn to look at him. 

"It's a fairy tale. It's a bunch of shiny new gadgets and all of the security experts will say they are revolutionary, because that is how the advertisements will read, but the technology is barely an inch forward from last year's. Q could be truly innovative, but he stays safe, just barely ahead of the curve. Boring. But the release is reassuring, it tells you that it can keep you safe, which makes it a fiction, and everyone loves a fairy tale."

"Don't they." He drinks his martini, his smile a little wider. Sherlock pauses to examine the man up close. Bespoke, down to his shoes. More injuries than a man his age and class should have acquired. Far more. His smile is familiar to Sherlock. It is one that he has seen in a mirror. 

"How long have you been seeing him? Q." He watches Bond's eyes for a tell. He pretends that it is merely an exercise. A way to pass the time. 

"Four months. We're in the first flush. It's paradise. All my nasty habits amuse him. We hardly see each other, which helps." He takes another sip of his drink to soften the wryness of his grin now. He is pleased, but unfamiliar with the feeling. It is uncomfortable to be caught happy, but his cover is blown. 

"I'm sure." Sherlock checks his phone. 

"I know all about you," Bond says and Sherlock raises an eyebrow, daring him. "Q reads the blog to me sometimes." 

"John leaves quite a bit out." 

"Like what?"

"The truth." The words snap. Bond laughs at the sound they make.

"And where is he now? Enjoying the fairy tale?"

 

~~~

 

Q is gripping his glass nearly hard enough to crack it. He is holding his smile tightly in place. He is not letting John Watson get under his skin, even as he stands before him. His tie is perfect. Q refuses to notice, but he does just the same. He wants to pull it out of place.

"My boyfriend's here." He knows that this isn't the right thing to say, but it feels important. 

"Here? Where?" John scans the crowd and Q points across the room. It is satisfyingly full. He tries to enjoy that.

"There." 

"With Sherlock?" 

"I believe you're acquainted actually." Q takes a sip of whiskey through a smile. It tastes watered down.

"I've never seen him before." John frowns and tries to get a better look over everyone's head, but he doesn't have the height advantage.

"No, but you've spoken," Q can't keep his smile from widening into a chuckle. "Well, conversed. Corresponded." 

"On the blog? Is he a fan?"

"You sent him to the gallery, to the Fighting Temeraire. To me. Nice work, Cupid." 

John puts the pieces together in an instant and Q can watch his stomach slither onto the floor. Stepping closer, John looks hard at him. It's too late for a warning look, but he is still going to try.

"We need to talk about this." 

"No, we don't. You need to stop."

Q takes another sip and turns away to look at James across the room. He is laughing and Q tries to bring that into his own eyes. He tries not to feel so far. 

 

~~~

 

"John has his own pursuits." Sherlock looks over to John and meets his eyes. John's brow is furrowed and Sherlock's face mirrors his expression, as if the mimicry could carry the meaning into his mind as well. 

"Like the blog." Bond is still speaking to him, still putting him through his paces. Sherlock is bored. 

"Yes."

"And you're a consulting detective."

"Yes," Sherlock says and steps into his space, standing up at full height. He has had enough. "Do you have a case?" At the second he speaks, his phone dings and his ears are deaf to his answer.

"I know who to come to if I do."

Sherlock opens the text, reads the message, and barely remembers that Bond exists. He certainly does not bother wasting his time on goodbyes. It is far more of a pissing contest than a conversation anyway. Sherlock does not care to measure his happiness against the man's own.

 

~~~

 

John watches him approach and asks his questions at twenty paces. Sherlock holds up his phone and nods to the door. Sherlock doesn't even acknowledge Q as he takes John's arm and begins to move towards the door. 

"Lestrade just got back the ballistics report."

"Oh, right, alright." John is certain that his eyes might as well be viewfinders. He keeps looking at Q, even as he answers Sherlock. He wants to peel off his skin and pass it to Sherlock, then empty out his guts for Q to keep safe. "I'll be seeing you then?" 

"Good luck with the case." Q's smile is a poor attempt, too fragile to do the job properly. John's hands shape themselves into the curve of Q's jaw, but he keeps them at his side. Sherlock is waiting.

"Thanks." 

Sherlock and John rush onto the street, emerging from the well lit hall into the night. Streetlight catches on rain as it falls and John is soaked almost immediately. When a cab approaches, its warmth is inviting, but John pushes Sherlock forward.

"You catch this one. I think I dropped my wallet inside." 

John is so transparent that Sherlock doesn't bother to point it out. It feels like a mercy when it isn't. There is a case. There isn't time to catch John in his lies. His dishonesty cannot hold Sherlock's attention. John knows this.

"You'll never catch another." Rain drips down his nose and falls from his curls. John lets himself miss him for a moment before he shoves him towards the cab.

"Just go. Don't keep Lestrade waiting."

"Fine." Sherlock ducks into the cab and slams the door behind him. John watches him pull away from the curb, rain sinking into his collar, and then turns back. 

Q has barely moved, but he is surrounded by admirers. John lurks nearby, dripping, and waits. He knows that Q can see him. He can feel him. It’s Q who pulls away, makes his excuses and crosses to him. 

"I thought you'd gone."

"Sherlock doesn't need me." John is crowding him, he knows it, and he can't force himself back. Desperation has soaked into him, an extra layer of damp. Q is slick with it too, standing this close. 

"I don't think he knows that."

John can't be sure that Sherlock doesn't know anything. Instead of a response, his eyes have found Bond in the crowd. He tries to take comfort in their shared colouring. In their military gait. It doesn't help.

"So, what does he do? Work for the government? Can you get any more boring?" 

"A blogger?" Q doesn't mean the barb and John ignores it. "His work holds his interest, I assure you." There is something underneath those words, and if he were Sherlock, he would know exactly what. He would deduce the words that filled the gap.

"Keeps him busy then?" 

"A lot of travel. Why pretend you don't know that?" 

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I'm sure Sherlock has told you his entire life story. Mine as well. You could ask him anything and then you wouldn't need to pretend to run into me at Tesco to find out what I am up to."

"I was not pretending. I needed safety pins. It was for a case."

"Or do you not ask him about me?" Q rounds on him and John recalls the version of insight that this man can produce. Q's brand of deduction has the instinct for the soft underbelly too. 

"Of course I don't ask him. I don't ask about  him either. I don't want to know about your boyfriend. I don't care," John says. His words are no less intense because he is trying to avoid making a scene. His clarity does the work of volume. Eye contact substitutes for grabbing him, pulling him close. "Look at me. Tell me you're in love with me."

Q doesn't blink. "I'm not in love with you." 

"You just lied." 

"Am I talking to you, or Sherlock, now?" Q steps back, breaking the connection. They can both see Bond approaching and he feels like a coming wave. "Don't you have a case?"

John opens his mouth, closes, opens, and turns away.

 

~~~

 

Q closes his eyes and inhales. He holds the breath and a familiar hand comes to rest on the crook of his neck. He lets it go. 

"Hello stranger." 

"Hello." He can feel James' breath on the nape of his neck. 

"Had to leave early, did they? Seems in a bit of a state." Casual words, but no casual distance. No one could miss the fact that they are together. The businessman in Q notes this, but says nothing.

"Were you spying?" Q turns to face James, but doesn't put much space between them.

"Lovingly observing, through a scope."

"There's a case, apparently, that's all."

"I could have him," James says, squinting in the direction of John's departure.

"Sorry?"

"If it came to it in a fight, I could have him. Of course, it wouldn't come to that." James tilts his head and Q smiles, curling an arm around him. He likes to wrinkle his suit. It’s his contribution to the ensemble. 

"No." 

"Did you tell him we call him Cupid?"

"No, that's our joke." Q swallows and James puts an arm around him, their forearms brushing. 

"I had a talk with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"And what is your judgment of him?"

"Brilliant. Not as much as you, of course," James says, squeezing him. "Rude."

"I noticed that as well."

"Well, we are practiced observers of the human carnivore."

"Are we?"

"Oh yes," James says, too much teeth in his smile, and Q clucks his tongue. 

"Mmm, you seem more like the cat that got the cream. Stop licking yourself," he says, pulling away, and James pauses.

"That is the nastiest thing you've ever said to me." It is an edge he didn't expect. A sting he hadn't felt yet. 

"I know, it's horrible. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." Q puts a hand to his face and then looks up, recomposing himself. James pulls Q back into his arms.

"You did, but I forgive you."

Their kiss is brief, but not secret. The only ones watching are lenses. 

"You're sweet," Q says, meaning it. Being forgiven is sweet. He loves the aftertaste it leaves in his mouth. James shakes his head. 

"I'm not, but I try on occasion." He takes two gentle fingers to lift Q's mouth back to his own. Q's eyes fall lower and he licks his lips.

"Just the same." He can see a puddle where John stood before he closes his eyes. 


	5. Chapter 5

He has done this before, but not quite like this. James savors the moment he pulls open the front door. Inside, Q is at his desk, but his body responds immediately to the sight of him, coming when called. 

"Don't move," James says, putting a hand out to stop him, and it sounds more dire than he means it. Q checks over his shoulder for a threat and then his eyes search for the exits, his new instincts something James is strangely proud of. Still, here is not the place for them, or at least not right now. James closes his eyes and re-trains his voice out of mission-urgency. Out of the instinct of threat. He swallows and clarifies, "I want to remember this moment. The first time I came home from a mission to be greeted by my husband."

Q's lips spread into a smile, but there is a delay like the footage isn't live and a crick in his step as he walks the rest of the way to James. He is looking fragile in grey sweats that hang a little too much on him, but James has never minded fragile. He takes Q into his arms, reminding himself to be careful, to make himself safe, that he is the only danger here. The gesture fits poorly on him until he softens his shoulders and unclenches his jaw. Q waits patiently for this unwinding: the slow reveal of James Bond, at home at last.

"You're much improved over an empty house and everything rotting in the fridge," James says, signaling. Q nods and pulls back, his arms slipping out from around him and falling back to his sides.

"Such a charmer." He is already turning away to his laptop, but James keeps closing that distance, sitting on the edge of their red leather couch so he can lean over and tap the top of Q's screen.

"I missed you. How's that?" He pairs a gesture he knows Q hates with a smile he knows he loves, gambling on one emotion being greater than the other.

"An improvement. Can I get you anything? How about some tea?" Q knows this game. James must be satisfied if he is to do anything worth doing, now. Weeks of peace and quiet to code and tinker, and now he has a secret agent to keep his hands full. James knows that Q enjoys his solitude - they could never work if it weren't the case - but he also knows that Q enjoys the kind of fun James has always specialized in. 

"I've missed that too. God, I'm knackered." He lets himself slide down on to the couch, his body a cross-stitch of injuries old and new. He can't help but groan as he settles.

"Didn't sleep on the plane, then?"

"I don't believe in it. Planes I'm in don't always stay in the sky. And I don't always stay in the planes I'm in."

"I have noticed this trend. Solutions are in the prototype phase."

"I never know whether to take you seriously." When James' laughter is met with silence, he sits up to look at Q over the edge of the couch. "We need you in Technical Services Section."

"I'm working on it."

"I've noticed. I saw some your work in the field actually. Well, the office. TSS had some of your surveillance software running when I came in. Recognized it immediately. They were drooling over it, the geeks. I was proud of you though. You've broken MI6."

"It's only a matter of time and persistence."

"And genius." The compliment is a little too earnest, but James is winding up for a pitch. Walking back over to his briefcase, he opens it in layers. Unzipping, lifting, sliding, and then feeling around in a crevice, he searches for the prize at the bottom. "Here, I brought you back something shiny. Had to smuggle it past us and them, but hopefully it's worth the trouble."

He holds up a gleaming dot, hardly visible from Q's vantage point, but they both know what he's brought. It's the bit of tech Q has been cursing and lusting after since its announcement months before. His industry moves fast and keeps its secrets, but keeping secrets from James Bond is its own unique challenge.

"You're wonderful." Q takes the tiny device gingerly, practically holding his breath. James watches his happiness like a spectator enjoying the show and then pulls him into a kiss.

"And don't you forget it."

Q is molten in his arms for a moment before tension begins to move through him. Thorough, languid kisses become short. Polite. James begins to feel like he's restraining instead of holding and he lets go. His skin feels raw.

"God, I need a bath." The fourth since he finished his last mission.

"I'll run it for you." Q moves to leave, but James catches his shoulder.

"No, no, just a shower will be fine. Hot though. Missed that too." He smiles, the expression shifting from playful to mischievous. "Unless you'd like to keep me company? I really have missed you."

"Sorry, just in the middle of something here. I'll be all yours when you're out though." His eyes are back on the screen already.

"Well, then I'll see to myself in the el-decoration bathroom."

"You chose that bathroom."

"The decorator chose that bathroom. And every time I wash in it I feel dirty. It's cleaner than I am. It's got attitude. The mirror says, "Who the fuck are you?"

"I wouldn't mention that on your next psych eval."

"You got funny while I was gone, did you?"

"Had to keep myself busy." He is leaning into the laptop to read something, but his mouth has a little bit of attitude, proof he's not left the conversation yet. A little bit of tension around his eyes too. It's a crick in his step.

"I'm sure you managed."

 

~~~

 

John is slow climbing the stairs to the flat, counting each step, and his hands are still tingling. He is breathless and now his heart is pounding again for a different reason. 

"Had a drink with Harry. You never have one drink with Harry," he announces as he crosses the entrance. It's premature. No one has asked yet. It's just a set of words to fill the space. He knows what is coming, but he wants to delay it a moment. He wants to take off his coat first. 

"Do try harder, John." 

Sherlock is still in front of his laptop, but he wasn't dressed when John left and he is in a full suit now. It fits him well. John swallows.

"Alright. I was out with Q. Better?" He confesses to the back of Sherlock's laptop, but the minute he finishes, Sherlock has snapped it shut and tossed it aside. 

"Better? Well, we've covered the basics. I'm sure I can deduce the rest. In fact, I'm certain I already have." 

"Let's have it then." It's almost a relief not to have to tell it. He feels cowardly, and he hides behind the sourness of that emotion, keeping the others at bay. 

"It began after his exhibition. You were persistent, although you had to be subtle if his boyfriend was in town. Fortunately, this is rare. It's almost a year now, isn't it? How nice. He got married recently, which is rather the pedestrian choice, I'd say. He thought it would work. It stopped for a while. Very sweet. In the end your begging phone calls were likely rather more convincing than the bonds of matrimony. Now you have agreed to move in together, make the leap as it were. I imagine Bond is getting the news tonight. Did I miss anything?" He finally meets John's gaze and the contact empties his lungs. 

"I'm in love with him." It's a quiet confession, but important.

"There's always something," Sherlock says, and for a moment, it's almost a joke. It goes off like milk the longer it stands in the air. John can feel the threads between them pulling and stretching as Sherlock stares at him. Examines. Observes. His brow furrows and he stands, turns away. Buttons his jacket. "I thought you were getting your needs met. I never thought you would delude yourself into thinking it was anything else."

"You knew? The whole time." 

He had been careful. Indeed, he had even been proud at his accomplishment at times. Slipping out from under the detective's nose. Sherlock had said nothing. 

Sometimes John thought that there was nothing to say at all; they weren't lovers after all, really. Just going about their business, in love. What does one say about that, when you have fallen in love elsewhere? Does the subtext of love require exclusivity? He was sparing Sherlock's feelings, hiding it. Skipping a conversation neither one wanted. 

Sherlock had been sparing them a different conversation, perhaps. Imagined that he was the primary; Q, the distraction.

"John, you do an incredibly convincing impression of an idiot. If I hadn't already noticed your absences, I would have noticed your marked decrease in sexual frustration." Sherlock has spun back around, scorn replacing any expression he had thought too personal to reveal. 

"It was always during cases. I hardly exist during cases."

"You always exist!" Sherlock roars and Mrs. Hudson is in the front row of this conversation now. "You told Irene that I speak to you even when you are not there. Does that not give you some idea of how I think of you?"

"Like your skull." 

"Like something I cannot imagine being without! Must I say it out loud for you to notice?"

They never said it. Subtext. John was willing to acknowledge it, see the truth of it between them, but he couldn't live on that alone. Anger blooms through cowardice like blood through gauze. 

"I notice plenty, Sherlock. I noticed your playacting in my bed, trying to humour me. Did you think I was blind?" It had only happened twice— three times. John had been almost able to fool himself. Sherlock is a good actor. He can play John as well as anyone else. He just rarely chooses to. Straightening the bedcovers the morning after the last, John had felt his stomach lurch. Had rushed to the toilet. Wiped his eyes after. Brushed his teeth twice. "You hated it. Every time. Of course I went elsewhere. I couldn't stand to see you shamming. Pretend to love me."

"I was not shamming." 

"You were!"

"Alright, I am not interested in sex. You knew this. You said you understood. That doesn't mean—"

"I did – I do! But I fell in love with Q, Sherlock. The whole damn way. I can't go back to whatever scraps you'll –"

"You think Q will be easier. You think it will be easy to love him, but it will not." Sherlock spins away from their face off, moving to the window. There's nothing out there, which is an improvement to whatever is in the flat.

"It's never easy. But it should feel possible." John is limp behind him, the words dragged out. This is the conversation he had wanted to be spared.

"And I am impossible?" The words splatter on the windowpane.

"Of course not. Miraculous, maybe. Just, us, the way we are together..." John reaches out a hand, almost brushes Sherlock's shoulder, but doesn't think it would be kind. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I said I wouldn't leave. I didn't think I would. I didn't think I'd fall in love. It was an accident."

"Hardly. There is always a moment, 'I can do this, I can give in to this, or I can resist it.' I know it well. I don't know when your moment was, but I know there was one," he snaps over his shoulder. John steps back and looks away. His eyes find the door. 

"I'll keep an eye out for it next time." He steps back again, but his footfall is interrupted.

"When do you go?"

"Tomorrow. Tonight if you'd like." He can book another night at the hotel. Another night won't matter. He takes another step back.

"Can I still see you?" Sherlock asks the windowsill and John is given the time to re-arrange his expression. It takes a moment. "John, answer me."

"I... I can't see you. If I see you, I'll never get away. Sherlock, you're this... It's so easy to make you my whole world, but I can't do that. I can't. I love him." The only thing worse than not seeing him was the idea of looking but not having. Sherlock didn't belong to anyone, but he had shared a little with John. Even so little would be missed. Impossible to withstand.

"And if I find another partner? What will you do?"

"Be jealous, I expect." 

"You can't go without the cases, John. You know that as well as I do." The scorn is back. Its return twists his throat.

"I have to try. I have to try to be happy." 

"Happy." He half turns away from the window, streetlights shadowing his face as much as they illuminate. John licks his lips; the words in his mouth are so tasteless. John is aware that he is disappointing.

"I know it's dull, Sherlock. It's what we normal people do. We try anyway." 

"You're happy with me." 

"You don't know how to be happy, Sherlock, unless you're on a case," John says, shaking his head. "I amuse you, but I bore you. You'll be just fine with your cases without me." 

"As ever, you see but you do not observe." The phrase is rote, but it crawls beneath John's skin just the same. He has looked for so long for some way to do this differently. He has to wait for his anger to soften into something he won't regret.  

"I hate hurting you."

"Then why are you?" It is an admission. John feels the wet slap of it and leans into the sting.

"Because I'm selfish. And I think I'll be happier with him." 

"You'll miss me. No one will ever offer you what I can give," Sherlock says, moving from the window to pull John into his arms. The surprise of it lets John relax into him for a moment, letting Sherlock frame his body. 

"Maybe." Breathing in, John already misses his scent and it forces him to pull away. They separate like wheel and axle. "But I would like a chance to find out for myself." Sherlock snarls and wraps his arms around himself now. 

"I can tell you how this will end. I could tell you now."

"I'd really rather you didn't, Sherlock." John is retreating properly now, pulling back, back, back. Away from Sherlock. Towards a future that is utterly unrecognizable to him.

 

~~~

 

Q catches him out of the corner of his eye and turns to put the picture in focus. A dark shadow becomes a man.

"Why are you dressed?'' Q says, cataloguing the lines of James' suit. It's cut to conceal all types of weaponry. The suit itself is fine armour.

"Because I think you might be about to leave me and I didn't want to be wearing a dressing gown." He manages to make it into casual conversation until Q pauses. It is just a breath, just a second to gather himself. He thought he would have more time. Morning at least. "Something's wrong. Tell me."

Q closes his laptop and steps away from his desk, rubbing his brow. He can feel James behind him and he tries not to let that mean anything. His mouth is dry.

"Are you leaving me?"

Q nods without meeting his gaze.

"Why?" James is holding his breath as Q shuffles through answers for the one best to play.

"John."

"Cupid? He's our joke."

"I love him." He plays another, putting the words down without blinking.

"You're seeing him now?" Q nods again. His throat feels raw. "Since when?"

"Since my opening last year." He folds, walking away. It didn't start then, properly. It was just a hint. It became more, almost without Q noticing. "I'm disgusting."

"You're phenomenal. You're so clever. You should be the agent of us. Why did you marry me? Did you think it would get you into MI6?" At first, James sounds hollow in his surprise, but the way he is putting the picture together washes over his features. He has never seen Q as a threat to his nation before, and Q would like to keep it that way. He must.

"No. No, it wasn't planned. I stopped seeing him. I wanted us to work." He is already begging forgiveness. He catches himself, re-watching his protests, and swallows his defenses. They'd talked about this.

"Aren't we working? We're happy, aren't we?"

"James—" he cuts himself off as James goes still, picking up Q's briefcase. Inside are smoothly coiled cords. Pockets are full and zipped. Backups are slipped inside. It's practically crass in its obviousness.

"You're going to go and live with him, then?"

"You can stay if you'd like." Q walks into the kitchen and tries to make it look like he's not running. He doesn't want to inspire a predator's response to flight. James is on his heels anyway.

"Oh, look, I don't give a fuck about the spoils. Why didn't you just tell me the moment I walked through the door? Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"I was scared." Q begins to make tea out of habit, needing somewhere to put his eyes and hands and mouth.

"You're a coward," he says and takes the cup from Q's hands. "What, were you afraid I might cry? Or that I might hurt you?" He smashes the cup into the sink and Q tries not to cringe.

"I've been hit before."

"Not by me!"

Q doesn't have to say it. You kill people for a living. You are a blunt instrument and I know what you do. He just has to wait for James to turn away.

They both turn at once. James rests his head in his hands at the kitchen table. Q pulls another cup down from the cupboard and begins the kettle. The soft sounds of it play as James stares down at the wood surface; he doesn't move until Q places a cup in front of him and sits down.

"Is he a good fuck?"

"Don't do this."

"Just answer the question. Is he good?"

"Yes." He says it into the cup he brings to his mouth. It doesn't dull the sound and James' eyes rest too long on his lips.

"Better than me?"

"Different."

"Better?" James leans forward and Q pulls back, although there is a table between them.

"Gentler."

"What does that mean?"

"You know what it means."

"Tell me." The hand he slams on the table shakes their tea, but Q just purses his lips. He knows a cheap trick when he sees it.

"No."

"I treat you like a whore."

"Sometimes."

"Why would that be?" The words snake across the table and Q has to step away out of their reach. He pours the rest of his tea down the sink. The milk must be going off.

"I'm sorry you're..."

"Don't say it. You're not sorry for anything. Look at you. You’re proud. You're making the mistake of your life. You're leaving me because you believe that you don't deserve happiness, but you do."

"Like you deserve it?"

"More!" James corners Q, his hands braced on the counter to pen him in. He is close enough to smell Q and he does. "Did you have a bath because you had sex with him? So I wouldn't know? So you'd feel less guilty?" He steps back and crosses his arms, the worst version of his smile on his face.

“James—”

"How do you feel?"

"Guilty." Q shoulders past him and back into the living room. James follows.

"Did you ever love me?"

"Yes. Of course, yes," Q says, grimacing as he looks over his shoulder. James continues to plow through.

"Did you do it here?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Do you wish we did?"

"Just tell me the truth."

"Yes, we did it here."

"Where?"

"There." Q points to the couch and James brushes his fingers along the leather.

"Did you think of me?" He looks up, but Q isn't watching him. He tries again. "When? When did you do it here?"

"This evening."

"Did you scream?"

"Why are you doing this? This isn't healthy." His tone is familiar: resistant and resigned at once. This is their game after all. James is a bulldog who won't let go. Q knows this.

"I need to know." James waits. Everything about him is a clenched fist. Q breaks sooner than he hopes.

"First he went down on me, and then we fucked.”

"Who was where?"

"I was on top, then he fucked me from behind."

"And that's when you came."

"Why is the sex so important?" Q finally looks him in the eyes and James is on him, a shot from a barrel of a gun.

"Because I'm a fucking caveman," he snarls, his hands wrapping tight around Q's upper arms. Q flinches, but it's just a show of anticipated pain. If James wanted to hurt him, he could. James leans in close and one hand slides down his body to Q's zipper. He can still remember to be gentle, if he wants to be. "Did you touch yourself while he fucked you?"

"Yes." Q instinctively matches the whisper in his ear with one of his own, and then coughs.

"You wank for him."

"Sometimes." His voice is louder and his struggle against the hold more obvious.

"And he does." A vision of John splayed before him blossoms abruptly in his mind and Q throws his weight backwards, yanking out of James' grasp. He lets him go.

"We do everything that people who have sex do."

"You enjoy sucking him off." James advances, forcing Q back, back into the wall.

"Yes." His heel hits the baseboard. James smiles. He never regrets an advantage.

"You like his cock."

"Love it," he spits, and James comes nearer. He is pressing himself against him now. His breath is hot in his ear and Q can feel him hard in his trousers.

"You like him coming in your face."

"Yes."

"What does it taste like?"

"Like you but sweeter." Q’s hands on his chest force James back, stronger than they look, but James is easing off already anyway, laughing. Q shivers at the sound.

"That's the spirit. Thank you. Thank you for your honesty.” He is already walking towards the bar and he only looks up from the drink he’s pouring for a second. “Now fuck off and die."

Q takes that as a sign that he should leave. Anything important, he takes with him.

He leaves a lot behind.

 

~~~

 

"Did you love me?" Sherlock hates himself for the question, just as he knows that John hates himself for the answer. 

"I – I will always love you. Just, I can't do it up close. Anymore." It is strange for him to say this now. It has been true for so long. 

The words hold Sherlock in stasis for long moments. It is too dark to see the proper colour of his eyes, but John still meets them. He lets him look.

"If you leave, don't come back." He sweeps out of the room before John can reply. It doesn't take a genius to know what John will say.

"Then I won't."


	6. Chapter 6

Bond knows it's wrong before he knows who it is. The hotel door clicks shut and there is nothing between his gun and his target. He presses the muzzle against the temple of the rent boy who just entered the hotel room, not even sure why he hasn't fired yet. It worries him.

The pause computes when he recognizes the rent boy, his conscious catching up to his instincts.

"Gun play is extra." Sherlock is obnoxiously calm. James considers firing anyway, but only for a second. He has good instincts. Lowering his weapon, he checks the safety and tucks it away.

Sherlock is playing the part well, including the requests James made when he arranged for a companion for the night. He regrets the transparency of them now. Dark hair, pale eyes, narrow body, thin wrists, black glasses. Sherlock doesn't need such evidence to see the truth of the matter, but he is dressed in it anyway.

"The cash is on the dresser," he says, pretending this meeting doesn't damn them both. For his part, Sherlock's eyes have yet to even light in recognition and it is a good trick. James has to respect a fellow craftsman.

"Thank you," Sherlock says and begins to pull his jacket from his shoulders. It slides off him and James eyes his wrong wrists.

Returning to his martini, James tries to pull out of his body enough for this. He had been sure before seeing him, the fellow wounded.

"Do I have to pay you to talk to me?" James turns back to see that Sherlock isn't wasting time, unbuttoning his cardigan and shedding it as well.

"No, but if you want to tip me, you are certainly welcome." His pale fingers are working each button of his shirt now, his eyes locked on James, but he slows as James looks away again.

"I used to come here when I was still in the navy. Good to know that not everything changes."

"One fixed point in a changing age," Sherlock murmurs and James grits his teeth as he feels him approach. He swallows the last of his martini and hands Sherlock the empty glass, pressing it softly into his naked torso.

"How long have you been doing this?" His eyes travel down and across, observing scars and freckles in equal number. It is a familiar constellation.

"Three months." Sherlock moves to fill the glass as if service were a natural fit. James smiles.

"Straight after he left you."

"No one left me." But James can read the truth in his shoulder blades.

Tension eases out of Sherlock like a receding tide as he focuses on the bar, his lithe limbs moving from bottle to bottle. James watches as he waits. If nothing else, it is a beautiful show. Sherlock silently returns the martini glass to him exactly as it should be, a lemon rind swirling in the bottom, and James puts a hand on his chest to force a pause.

"Does all this turn you on?" His thumb makes slow circles on his skin.

"Sometimes," Sherlock says and his hips move to press against James' own. It is the right thing to do, which is what makes it suspicious.

"Liar," James pulls away and downs most of the martini still in his hand. "You just think that's what I want to hear. You think that I'm turned on by it turning you on."

"Aren't you?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow and James' mouth becomes a firm line. To be desired by Sherlock Holmes? It certainly has its appeal. James lets his eyes rake over him without shame as he steps forward again, taking Sherlock's cheek in hand.

"Why the fuck did he leave you?" It's a slap, but it's honest. Sherlock reels in slow motion and James can watch him dull the response. Seal it away. It takes a fraction of a second before he can step back without appearing to flee.

"Did you come here often?" His face is smooth again.

"A question. You've asked me a question."

"That is part of generally accepted conversation, is it not? I'll admit, most dates don't want much idle chatter. Perhaps I am out of practice."

"It's a chink in your armour."

"I'm not wearing armour."

"Yes you are. You know why we do," James is circling him now, growing ever closer. "Why are you calling yourself Jim?"

"Because it's my name."

"We both know it isn't."

"Wouldn't you rather I suck you off than play twenty questions?" His re-creation of lust is very convincing. James stifles the urge to applaud.

"Is this for a case then? Are you close to a culprit? What's the angle here? Child prostitution? Sex trafficking? Both –" he says, but Sherlock forces his mouth over his, swallowing his words with a kiss. His lips taste like beeswax and press ferociously against him, soft but demanding. It's not bad.

"There are cameras in the ceiling." The words leak between his lips into James' mouth. A soft hiss.

"Theirs? Or yours?"

"Theirs are mine." Sherlock nips him as he grips his lapels, pulling James closer. He presses kisses down the line of his neck so James find his mouth next to Sherlock’s ear.

"Are you asking me not to blow your cover?" It's a favour.

"I'm asking if you wouldn't rather me blow you, Agent 007.”

James doesn't hesitate as pulls his gun from its holster and presses it deep into the soft flesh of Sherlock's neck, tucked close to his main artery.

"I don't remember telling you that."

"Is it supposed to be a secret?" Sherlock looks bored, so James presses the gun harder into his neck, crushing his windpipe against the barrel.

"Who told you?"

"I deduced it." The words are strained, but his articulation is still sharp. James releases the safety and grips Sherlock tighter.

"You guessed?"

"I never guess." He has to spit the words to get them out, but he does. James believes him. He let's go, but he doesn't put away his weapon. Sherlock stumbles forward, rubbing his throat, and James doesn't take his eyes off him.

"Well, if you know me, I want you to tell me your name." It's spiteful, but that's the mood he's in.

"My name is Jim."

"Your real name."

"My real name is Jim," he says, glancing to where a phone sits beside the bed. He'd warned about cameras. James can't be bothered to care. No one he is associated with would be surprised by this footage. Nothing to hide.

"Careful," he says, aiming the gun closer to his heart as he takes several steps forward. It's a small hotel room. There isn't much ground to cover before his gun is inches from Sherlock's chest.

"Still Jim."

"I have got about another five hundred quid here," he pulls a wad of bills from his jacket with his free hand. Clearly he has no respect for his own life, but his character should value money. "Why don't I give you all this and you tell me what your real name is?"

"James Moriarty, at your service."

"I may be rich, but I'm not stupid."

"Where did you get that idea?"

"Don't you fuck with me." James forces the end of his gun into Sherlock's chest, into his heart. He imagines that he can feel it beating through the metal of the barrel. His pulse is steady.

"My apologies. I thought that was rather the point."

"I don't want you. You know what I want."

"I know what you like. I'll have them send someone else." He goes to fetch his clothes and James is too surprised to even shoot him.

"We met last year. Don't tell me you would forget a face." His gun is trained on him as he buttons his shirt and his cardigan, but it's decorative. They both know that if Sherlock was going to die tonight, he would be dead already.

"Wrong person." Sherlock straightens his cuffs and slides on his jacket.

"Talk to me!" James grabs him by his lapels and pins him against the wall.

"I. Am."

"Outside this room. No cameras, no disguises. I didn't know you'd be here but I know who you are and I love everything about you that hurts. He won't even --" James stops talking before his voice can even threaten to crack. He blinks twice in the place of an admission. Sherlock hears it. "You feel the same, I know you feel the same."

"You don't know anything."

"I know that this is exactly what you need. We need."

"I'm not interested in a 'revenge fuck.'"

"You're not interested at all," James says and yanks on his coat, jerking Sherlock forward. "Come home with me. Now. It's safe there--"

"I don't think either of us is interested in safe."

"If I asked to fuck you right now, would you let me?"

"Certainly. Do you want to?"

"No, Sherlock, I want you to tell me something true." He throws him aside and stalks to the bar. Sherlock picks himself up off the floor and watches his back. James is slow to fix himself another drink. Every pour is deliberate. He waits.

"The cameras remind you of him. Every time you drag some pathetic specimen into your bed, you hope he's watching. Hope he is keeping an eye on you. Still loves you. How sweet. That's why you're here in this hell hole, instead of ordering in a playmate. You don't need a bargain basement whore. You could pick up anyone you desired, but what you desire is attention, and whatever you do to me tonight, you will not get it," Sherlock says, snapping out sentence after sentence without pausing for breath. "Did I miss anything?"

"You really are a cold fish aren't you?" James swallows most of his martini at once.

"Maybe next time I'll have worked on my bedside manner," Sherlock says, and it clear that his character dissolved long minutes ago. The idea of nailing Sherlock into the floor is infinitely more appealing than his rent boy. James walks over and puts two fingers beneath his chin, lifting it slightly. Exposing his neck.   

"No, I'll tell you what's going to work. You're going to strip right now, and you're going to turn around very slowly, and you're going to bend over, and you're going to touch the fucking floor."

"That's what you want?" Sherlock's gaze meets his perhaps for the first time. James doesn't blink when he responds.

"You tell me."


	7. Chapter 7

James looks kept on a leash. Or like he should be. Q can imagine leather around his throat and it is an improvement. Q imagines that it would restrain some of that urge to leap across this tiny table and rip out his throat. He can imagine that too.

"I hate this place." James holds his menu up between them, but it's a poor barrier. He's not even looking at it.

"At least it's central." Q tries to set a good example by reading menu items, but he can feel James' scowl. It's distracting, and Q isn't even hungry.

"I hate Central. Central London's a theme park." James tosses the menu onto the table and leans back in his chair. "I hate nostalgia. I hate the future. Where does that leave me?"

"I haven't the faintest-"

"Come back." His hand finds Q's on the table. Not somehow. He's never had trouble finding him.

"You promised you wouldn't, James."

He attempts to reclaim a hand held too tightly, but it's difficult to do without making a scene. It's his glare that makes James relent, rather than any struggle. James retracts and they both fold their arms in unison.

"And you believed me? Not as clever as I thought. Come back."

"How's work?" Q's tongue clucks on the words and he directs his eyes back at the menu, although calming breaths are required to actually focus enough to read its atrocious font.

"Work is shit. I hear you have the clearance now to know just how much. Congratulations. Welcome to hell."

Q looks up in time to catch James at his wry smile and he drops his gaze to the menu again. He's not sure what he can stomach.

"Thank you." He clears his throat of the words the minute they're spoken. He can feel the urge to roll his shoulders back, but it's those small signs that he can't afford to offer James. Everyone has a tell and James has catalogued his every one. It used to be endearing.

"I love you. Please come back."

"I'm not coming back, James." He reaches into his briefcase and his hand finds the proper folder immediately. His body knows his business. He places the documents on the table between them, James eyeing them instantly. "Sign." He taps the papers.

"No pen." It sounds like "Fuck you."

"Pen." Q drops it on top of the divorce paperwork and James snatches his hand the second it's empty. Q grits his teeth and offers another glare. "Give me back my hand."

"That is the problem isn't it." James squeezes more tightly. It hurts, a little. Just enough to remind him that it could hurt a lot. As if he could forget. Q doesn't let it show on his face, but his pulse isn't obeying orders.

"Sign."

"On one condition."

"Yes?"

"We skip this, go back to our favourite hotel, and we have our final fuck. I know that you weren't planning on this, and I know that you think I'm sick for asking, but that's what I'm asking. For old time's sake," he says as his thumb begins to circle Q's palm. It's a mistake to look up, to meet his gaze, but Q does it anyway. He swallows and doesn't look away. "Because I'm obsessed with you. Because I can't get over you. Because I didn't know that the last time would be the last time, and because I think you owe me that for betraying me so exquisitely."

"Be your whore and you'll pay me with my liberty? Is that the sum of things?"

"You do this and I won't contact you again."

"You're disgusting." Q feels like he ought to slap him, but that would be making a scene. Giving in. Instead, he goes lifeless, plays dead like he was taught, and looks out the window at the theme park.

"Well, I'm going to the bar," James says and Q tries not to notice him leave. His hand is just suddenly empty.

 

~~~

 

John's eyes are on the door. He barely notices the television screens that have grabbed the attention of everyone else in the bar. He only breaks to check his watch. His vigil is over the minute Q rushes through the doorway and he can finally check the score. England is down by one, but fighting hard.

As Q approaches his seat at the bar, John attempts to feel less like he has been stood up. The man looks thrown together in a hurry and John appreciates the disarray. At least he is a little frantic too.

Q's first words are swallowed up by the cheers of the crowded bar. His mouth shapes, "I'm so sorry." John shakes his head; he tells himself that he didn't need to hear the apology anyway.

"What happened?"

"Traffic. London. Have I missed the entire thing?"

"No. Well, close, but let's us have a drink, anyway. Might not be over yet." John doesn't need another - there's been nothing to do but drink for over an hour - but he wants it. They're celebrating. "Gin and tonic? You look flushed. You break into a sprint?"

Q nods as he pulls off his layers and seems to be settled in his seat by the time he accepts his glass. John nudges his knee against Q's under the counter, but doesn't steal a kiss. Q is busy drinking anyway.

"So. How was it?"

"Fine."

"You had lunch?" They must have. It took ages. A man like Bond can't just let go. His signature has to be negotiated over a nice meal or a poker game.  

"Or something like it."

"And then?"

"And then we left."

The crowd around them groans and Q checks the score. John doesn't take his eyes off Q.

"And?"

"There is no 'and'."

"You haven't seen him in months. There must be an 'and'."

Not strictly true. He doesn't say that. He just remembers Bond banging at his door at two in the morning, still dripping blood and hastily bandaged, and demanding Q. He nearly shot him. He thinks the same is likely true of Bond. It took an hour of closed door negotiations and another half hour in the front room for him to leave. "How is he?"

"Terrible."

"His work?"

"John, you don't care how his work is going. Let's not pretend." Q is smiling over the edge of his glass and John has to give him that.

"Fine, was he weeping all over the place?"

"Not his style."

Apparently only at two the morning.

"Demanding? Difficult?"

"You know he was." Q finally puts down his glass, empty. "Are you angry that I saw him?"

"No. It's just... I haven't seen Sherlock." John clears his throat and Q grimaces.

"You can't see Sherlock. You don't know where he is."

"I haven't tried to find him."

Not strictly true, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't know where to even start. Baker Street has been empty for months.

"I saw him so that he would sign. Now he'll leave us alone."

"And he did sign?" John's pint stops en route to his lips. Their eyes meet and Q smiles coyly.

"As promised." As negotiated.

"Congratulations. You're a divorcé." He clinks his pint against the empty glass.

"What I always wanted."

"For the last few months anyway. How does it feel?"

"Mostly I think I'm just tired. God but love is exhausting. Or, ending love, I suppose."

"Well, I love you, so it can't be completely tiresome." John squeezes Q's hand, resting it on his thigh under the counter, and places a kiss at the very corner of his mouth. It's so quick even Q hardly notices. "And I'll leave you to think on that. Be back." It's a silly thing to do, but he does it anyway.

 

~~~

 

Q outlasts his instincts by watching ice melt in the water glasses. Solid slips into liquid and he breaks. Picking up the papers and his briefcase, he curses softly and follows James to the bar. He is drinking a martini, but there is a glass at the stool beside him.

"I assume you still drink whiskey?"

Q drops the papers with a satisfying whap and picks up the glass. He drinks the double in a single swallow, all too aware that James is watching. His only solace is how desperately he has wanted a drink since he walked in. He signals the bartender for another.  

"I'm doing this because I feel guilty and because I pity you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Feel good about yourself then?"

"No."

When he walks out, James follows.

 

~~~

 

John is washing his hands when he realizes. He can hear the deductions as if Sherlock were at his shoulder, suddenly more present than any memory had a right to be. Especially in the loo. Perhaps his deductions sunk in more than John thought.

"You slept with him, didn't you?"

"John," Q begins, but he is interrupted by observations suddenly written on his body.

He has missed a button on his shirt, so he dressed quickly, but the fabric of another buttonhole looks pulled, as if it has been yanked sharply to the right. It could have been Q rushing to get undressed, still suspicious, but more likely it was someone facing him and using their dominant hand, not Q using his left. His hair style has been carefully recreated, but there is only so much one can do with limited time or supplies in a hotel bathroom. John can smell it now, the floral soap meant to cover up the scent of Bond, of sex, all over him like gun powder residue after a shoot out. John has never liked magnolia. He will hate it now.

"You did, you slept with him. Traffic. Yeah, well, I know how that can be." His dark chuckle is drowned out by a gulp of beer.

"John, don't be like this."

"What do you expect me to be like?"

"Understand," Q says and John can hardly take him seriously. Can hardly look at him, but when he turns away, Q's hand catches his shoulder. "I did what he wanted and now he'll let me go. Let us go."

"I didn't know we needed his permission."

"If Sherlock came to you, desperate, with all that love still between you and he said that he needed you, you'd do it. I know. Whatever it was, you'd give it to him. I wouldn't like it either, but I'd understand. I'd forgive you."

"So you gave him your body because he asked?" John orders another beer and doesn't bother to stop the conversation for the bartender. Q pauses, shame-faced, and softens his voice.

"It's kindness."

"It's cowardice. You haven't the guts to let him hate you. You... you can't stop apologizing for us." John doesn't know if it is true, but it feels good to say it. To turn Q's guilt against him.

"Don't, John, don't let him get to you. I can see your face. Shit, I know, I know. It was a stupid thing to do and it meant nothing." His hand is searching for John's beneath the counter, but John is gripping his glass tight enough to shatter. "If you love me-- if you love me enough, you'll forgive me."

"Are you testing me?"

"No, no, I do understand. I know that this-"

"No, he understands. He's clever, your ex-husband. I almost admire him." John manages to look at him again, though it hurts like breathing with a sucking wound. "All I can see is him all over you. His hands." His voice breaks. He looks away.

"John-"

"I think you enjoyed it. He wheedles you into bed. The old jokes. The strange familiarity. The sin of it. You always like a good guilty fuck. Well I'd know, wouldn't I? I think you had a whale of a time." The crowd around them is a gross contrast to the silence between them, shouting fans competing for air. Q is only staring at him, his eyes entirely full of his unconvincing arguments. John checks the score. England has moved ahead as time runs out. "And the truth is that I'll never know unless I ask him."

"You can't just trust me?" They both know that is a useless thing to say and Q covers his face with his hand. "Well, then why don't you?"

The bar erupts in cheers and whatever else Q says is silenced by the celebration. John watches his lips form words and then finally stop. Give up. He just shakes his head and looks up at the screens.

Behind John, someone claps him on the shoulder: "What a great game." Men are streaming passed them, embracing each other, laughing. John feels like he was rooting for the wrong side.

 

~~~

 

"Are you going to tell him?"

There is only one him. John is like a third person in the room. It made James grin earlier, imagining it, but they never tell you that revenge is brief. He had hopes to make it last this time.

"Does it matter to you?"

Q is fussing with his own clothes, so transparently worried that John will notice something. James wants to just take his hands, his wrists, and steady his guilty quaking. He cannot stop himself from wondering if their trysts were like this. He imagines that Q looked at John after. Kissed him after. Lingered at least a little, even just with his eyes.

"Better to be truthful about this kind of thing." He keeps his tone light.

"You lie for a living. I don't need your relationship advice, but thanks all the same. Now. Sign."

Q slides the papers into his line of sight and James finally flips through to the place where the lawyer has tagged for his signature. Looking back up at Q with papers in hand, the man has finally stopped holding his breath. He's rolling his shoulders; he doesn’t know he’s doing it. James licks his lips as if anticipating another kiss, but he keeps his distance.

"You know what? I think I even forgive you." He chuckles as Q hands him the pen.  

"Sign."

James smiles and follows orders. His lips are going to taste of whiskey for at least the next hour or so.


	8. Chapter 8

He would have been fine, except for the metal detectors. John probably shouldn't have taken his illegal handgun on his visit to MI6, but he thought the risk of bringing it was outweighed by the risk of needing it. Perhaps a miscalculation.

When Bond rounds the corner, John is aware of how ridiculous he looks. Dripping with rain and restrained by two men in suits, he is not the picture of sanity. He feels crazy, lately. Why else come here? He must be insane.

"What do we have here?"

"Keeps asking for you, sir. Normally we would just send him on his way, but his file—" Bond cuts the man off with a wry smile.

"I'm sure it is a fascinating read. Thank you for alerting me. You can release him into my custody. I'm not afraid of John Watson."

"Sir—"

"Or his toy gun. You can give it back to the tin soldier. He won't hurt anyone, will you?" Bond meets John's gaze properly for the first time. He is looking down at him, a merciful God springing him from a headlock and criminal charges with rank alone. It stings as John nods. "There now, all settled. This way."

Bond leads John to his office in silence. John's shoes squeak on the marble like he's a child gone puddle jumping. Every step emphasizes what a mistake it was to come, but he shakes it off. He didn't come for nothing. The minute the office door shuts behind them, he closes his fists and opens his mouth.

"I want Q back." The words are rough on the way out. Bond just laughs and spreads his hands.

"I didn't take him. He made his choice. He chose me."

"Maybe but— look, I owe you an apology. I fell in love with him but I never meant any disrespect." It is the closest thing he can get to regret when he doesn't regret a minute, except for maybe the last few. Except for the end.

"Then what did you mean?" Bond crosses his arms, waiting to be impressed. John just has the truth.

"I love him."

"So do I."

"If you love him, you'll let him go so he can be happy." He doesn't know when he became a man who pleads. It stings.

"Is that an apology? I must have missed it. Try it again?" Bond is enjoying this. That isn't part of the plan, but even John is beginning to acknowledge that it's inevitable: how low he will have to sink, lower still than he has, before this is over.

"I apologize."

"Accepted. He's moved on, John. You should too." His voice is light, easy, as he turns his back on John. It is a dismissive slap that seems to break every humble bone in his body.

"He went back to you because he feels guilty!" John says and Bond whips back around.

"We're happy, he's happy. There's nothing to be done."

"Of course he isn't. You've never understood him. You love him like a dog loves his owner!"

"And the owner loves the dog for so doing." Bond steps closer and the office is not so large that this goes unnoticed. John steps forward too.

"You'll hurt him. You'll never forgive him. He knows it."

"Of course I'll forgive him – I already have! Without forgiveness we're savages."

"You only met because of me!" Another step.

"Thanks. Nice of you." Another.

"No, it's a joke. Your marriage is a joke."

"Want another? He never sent the divorce papers to the lawyer. Isn't that funny? I know you think I'm brute, but I am nevertheless what Q has chosen and if you love him, you'll respect that." They are nearly touching now. They could kiss, or spit, or maul. "And if you go near him again, I swear I will kill you."

"Really?"

"I'm quite good at it."

"I've heard."

"I've heard about you too. Very interesting." Bond straightens, calling attention to his height, and John has to restrain himself. He doesn't want the guards back around his neck. It's a close thing though. "We spent nights talking about you. I know all your little ways now. Q said you fucked him with your eyes closed. Said you woke up in the middle of the night, crying out. He said you come—"

"He hates your hands. He hates your simplicity. Do you think he enjoyed it, your lunch?" They both know what he is referring to.

"I didn't do it for him to enjoy it. I did it to fuck you up. I did it because I enjoyed it. Of course, he enjoyed it too. Guilt gets our boy hard. Near obsessed with dirty secrets. As a spy, he's a natural."

"You're an animal."

"And what are you?"

"Heart broken."

"You're a liar. You still say Sherlock's name in your sleep. Did you think Q wouldn't notice? If you want my advice, that's who you should be crawling back to," Bond snarls and John turns away, clutching himself.

"He's gone and vanished." He doesn't allow his voice to tremble.

"No he hasn't. I caught his scent without even trying." Bond chuckles.

"What?"

"I ran into him a few months ago. It might give you a place to start." Bond is suddenly holding out a slip of paper with an address scribbled across it. It's in John's hand before he can even ask if Bond is taking the piss. When he takes a closer look at the address, his stomach sinks.

"You saw him here? What, why?"

"He was undercover as a rent boy. I requested one. Before you ask, no I didn't fuck him."

"But you spoke to him? How is he?" John has never been so thirsty in his life.

"He’s Sherlock. He loves you." Bond sounds bored, but it can't disguise the meaning of his words. They are a well-placed detonation. John can feel his bones shake.

"You think so?"

"I can't imagine why." That he can believe.

"Thanks." Clutching the paper tightly, he means it. His entire body demands he throw himself out of the office and towards that address, but he came here for a reason. Now his cause is split and it embarrasses him to be so changeable. It holds him there, pretending to be steady. He's frozen until Bond speaks again.

"You haven't been blogging." The question takes him enough by surprise to get a proper answer.

"No. Not much to say, really."

"Been on Grindr?"

"Not lately." He grins and a glance at Bond shows he is even smiling too.

"God, I wanted to kill you, standing in that gallery."

"I thought you wanted to fuck me."

"Things change," Bond says, shrugging off John's cheeky retort. John's grin softens and his fist tightens around the paper.

"They do that, yeah." Some things change back too, perhaps.

"Enough. Go home. Eat some take out. Go find Sherlock." Simple enough orders. Sensible even. He tries to forget who Bond is for a moment so it won't get in the way.

"I will. Thank you."

Bond walks him back out. It’s security not courtesy. They don't speak, not even to say goodbye. They don't bother with the insult of false sentiment. Bond watches John pass back through the metal detectors. John has the decency to feel a bit sheepish as he places his gun in the bucket with his shoes, belt and the contents of his pockets. At least this time no alarm sounds.

"John?" Bond's voice stops him as he is threading his belt back through its loop. He glances over his shoulder and Bond is now standing just out of reach. He leans through the metal detectors to whisper to him. "I did fuck Sherlock. Lovely time. Sorry to tell you, but it's best to be honest with these things."

Sound rips from his throat as he throws himself at Bond, all rage and no technique. Skill won't save an army doctor from an assassin. Bond has already won. All he wants is to hurt. Everything hurts. He'll settle for that.

When Mycroft finally springs him from the MI6 cell where he is slumped, blackened and bleeding, he has a plan. He has the slip of paper memorized. He has hope.

It could be dangerous.


	9. Chapter 9

John is staring again. Since his return, it has become a common occurrence. Sherlock is hardly remarkable at the moment, throwing a small rubber ball against the cabinet over and over. The rhythm keeps time with his own heart, but John can't know that.

The plan is simple: follow the bouncing ball. Sherlock can do that. He is doing that, with Moriarty and John both. It has been driving him half mad to pretend that he doesn’t know the end of either story, but he is pretending. He is saying the right things and he is waiting.

Moriarty has him practically reading from a teleprompter. It is ridiculous but it appears to be effective. Moriarty seems to be having too much fun playing the villain to notice how the edges of his cartoon world bend softly around him. The Holmes brothers have built him a snow globe London to rule until the minute they choose to shake it. It is almost time.

Sherlock pulls out his mobile to send his Marco Polo text. _Come play. Bart’s Hospital rooftop. P.S. Got something of yours you might want back._ That is the easy part. His next move comes at a greater cost.

John will leave again; Sherlock has never doubted this ending. It is better this way, Sherlock leaving for both of them. There is a plan already in motion—it was already in motion when John returned to him, in fact. Now it cannot be stopped by any man, least of all John. Least of all Sherlock. This is merely what happens when an unstoppable force meets an intelligent subject. It is nature taking its course. Sherlock hopes that John would understand, but he wouldn’t bet his life on it, so he doesn’t.

“What is it?” He finally snaps, catching the rubber ball. It is soft and warm in his palm.

“Tell me what happened with Bond,” John says and Sherlock knows that the wait is over in that second. John does not know yet, but he will soon.

“Nothing happened with Bond, John. It is beyond me that you can be focused on him when Moriarty should have your full attention.” The boredom in his voice is practically genuine. He has been bracing himself for this conversation for months. In his mind, it has already happened hundreds of times.

“So, you went to his hotel room, you had a little chat and that was it?” There is a careful lightness to John's voice that says he has been bracing for this conversation too, practicing nonchalance. It isn't his best work.

“John, I went to a lot of hotel rooms. You’re going to have to accept—”

“You had every right. I know. I know, Sherlock, but I just want to—I need to know. About him.”

“Why?” he asks, and then berates himself for asking. It doesn't matter why now. Questions only delay the inevitable. It is a childish ploy, but it still works.

“Because I want to know everything, because I must be a lunatic. I haven’t the faintest, honestly, but it’s driving me round the bend. Please just tell me the truth.”

“Nothing happened, John. You were living with someone else!” Sherlock stands and makes a show of sweeping his coat behind him as he turns away. Even John can't miss his cues.

“See, that, there. What are you justifying?”

“I am merely pointing out facts, John." Sherlock strides back to stand before him. Appropriate eye contact is key to a successful performance. "Facts, like the number of times you fucked Q over my chair. Yes, I knew about that. How daring, really. However, like that fact, some are best left unexamined.” He doesn't have to fake disgust.

“That’s not very like you.” Sherlock's aggression serves to steady John, making his resolve solidify into a soldier's stance and distaste for retreat. It is easy enough to trigger the responses he needs.

“I am merely going where the evidence leads me, evidence that indicates some dead should stay buried.”

“You’re a poet now. I wonder if there is a hat for that.” John crosses his arms and looks over Sherlock's shoulder. He is distancing himself. Sherlock is perversely pleased, even as the ache begins. “Why can’t you trust me?”

Of all people, he trusts John most. It is the thing that makes this a challenge. It makes this an act.

“Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Because you’ve got me addicted to facts, Sherlock. I just want the truth.” John's hands are warm on his shoulder and soft at the curve of his jaw. He thinks perhaps John means to kiss him. For a moment, John looks at him like he is something precious, something he is coaxing back into his embrace. It is tempting to be coaxed, but there are bigger things in motion. His pocket buzzes and breaks the spell.

"You want to be comforted. That is hardly the same thing, John." He should know. John flinches at his dismissal, but he is shaking his head as he steps away, brushing it off. It takes an effort, but John has never shied from that.

“I’m going for a walk. When I come back, will you tell me?”

“John, you can’t be seen—” Sherlock hides panic in scorn and John finally snaps back; it is almost a relief.

“Sherlock, could you please treat me like an equal rather than a sidekick, just for one bloody second?” His face is wrenched in anger and Sherlock forces himself to watch him carefully. He needs him frustrated, but not yet so much that he would leave the hospital. He can't go off book now. The story must have its proper ending.

He watches as John forces his way through the doors and then shoves his hands into his pockets. He is searching for change. He is just going to the vending machines, and Sherlock allows himself to be relieved for a moment. He has a moment to be relieved before John returns. He slips his hand back into his pocket, finds the round edge of his mobile, and looks down at the text he felt arrive.

_I'm waiting...JM_

 

~~~

 

Sherlock is bouncing the ball again when John returns, his gaze steady on the middle distance. John is about to speak, but he's waited too long.

"I don't love you anymore."

"Since when?" John tries to sound incredulous, he tries to laugh, but he has been waiting for this. He is holding up two bags of crisps and the moment is here. He should have seen it coming.

"Now. Just now. Turn around and walk back the way you came." The rubber ball strikes the cabinet with a thump for emphasis in all the perfect places and John snatches it from the air.

"Enough, enough with the ball. What are you on about?"

"I don't want to lie to you; alternatively, I can't tell the truth, so it's over. You've made that abundantly clear." Sherlock's face is smooth, verging on bored, and John is numb and sick.

"No, it doesn't matter. None of it matters."

"Of course it does, John, don't be stupid." Sherlock stands and turns; it is a dismissal that John refuses to hear.

"No, no, Sherlock, why are you saying this?" He tries to touch his face, hold onto him, catch some part of him before he gets too far. They both cringe when Sherlock recoils.

"You said you wanted the truth, so let's have it. Yes, Bond fucked me. It wasn't detestable. He wasn't boring. I prefer you." Sherlock keeps his gaze steady into John's eyes as he speaks. "Now you can hate me."

John feels he might truly be sick. His body lurches as he tries to swallow the facts, fighting him.

"I knew that already. He told me." He gets the words out around his gag reflex. Sherlock's face is aghast: a pale, gaping mask.

"You knew? Then why all of this? Why test me?"

"He might have been lying. I needed to hear it from you. Sherlock, you cannot imagine what I have been picturing, since the minute I heard him say... I thought. I needed to know, from you, what happened."

"Of course he would tell you. I would tell you, in his place. God, how could I have missed that you knew?" Sherlock is pacing and John just wants to hold him steady. Truthfully, he wants to be held, but he couldn't possibly make the request. Sherlock is not an affectionate manic. "I never would have told you. I knew that you wouldn't forgive me—"

"Of course I can forgive you—I do!"

"No, you think you can, but this is his game. Oh but he has played his hand beautifully. If he wasn't such a bastard I would congratulate him."

"What are you on about?"

"This. This is what he wanted. Now," Sherlock drops like his strings have been cut, sinking back down to the floor, "please go. I'm sure Sarah will let you stay on the lilo."

"Sherlock, you don't mean that. What about Moriarty?"

"What about him? Do you think you will be of particular use to me without a gun?" he sneers, and a part of John breaks off, like a glacier cracking.

"I love you!"

"And what good is that to me? It's not even real."

"What, of course—"

"Show me this love, John. I observe, it is my craft, deduction is my science, and yet I cannot see it. I cannot touch it. I certainly can't feel it. I can hear some... words, but I can't do anything with your easy words. Whatever you say is too late." Sherlock folds in on himself, human origami in the shape of rejection. John can recognize this posture. He pleads anyway, on his knees beside Sherlock and his hands on his lapels.

"I'm sorry, you misunderstood before. I wasn't trying to—"

"Yes you were. Now go, or I'll call the police." Sherlock shoves him away and John absorbs the force without pushing back.

"You're a fugitive!"

"I'm willing to take that risk." He is. John drops his head rather than see it.

"Fine, then just tell me: why did you fuck him?"

"I was keeping my cover."

"Bullshit."

"I wanted to."

"Bullshit." His eyes are hot and hard on Sherlock's, rage curdling the pain, and the man's face is a mirror.

"I desired him, John. He's very attractive."

"You're so full of shit—"

"You. weren't. there!" Sherlock throws him back, breaking the connection, and John launches himself at him. His hands dig into cloth and flesh, grabbing tight to hold still.

"Why him? Why not anyone else?"

"He asked nicely."

"Liar!" He shakes him. Sherlock lets him.

"Go on, hit me. I know it's what you want. Perhaps you'd feel better if you got a bit of your own back, as they say. Maybe then you'd finally leave me alone!"  

"You machine." He drops him and forces himself back. His hands are claws; they can't hold anything gently. His own body has betrayed him. "Sod this. Sod this. Fine. I'll go find my own hiding place if that's what you want. Leave you alone."

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"No, Sherlock. Love protects people," he says, and Sherlock's expression twists with scorn.

"Wrong. Love is a dangerous disadvantage. One that I can no longer afford."

And it is over. Sherlock turns away and he is done. John sees it happen. It's like watching a man's dying breaths, the final exhale before life leaves. It seems inevitable, the end.

He should be angry, sad, anything, but John just feels empty as he leaves. 


	10. Chapter 10

It is all over the papers. Even locked in Technical Services Section, drinking coffee through missions that last for days, Q hears the news. Some people are pleased to hear that they were right, while others are disgusted and pleased.

Watching the CCTV footage of the fall, because he has to watch the footage, he nearly calls. He doesn't. It isn't kind. Sherlock Holmes is dead, but it doesn't change anything. Perhaps that is the worst realization. It doesn't matter.

He is re-reading the so-called exposé when someone knocks. He barely glances over when the door opens; you need two fingerprints, a key card and a familiar face to get this far into the building.

"Yes?"

"May I introduce your newest agent?" Tanner says, and Q's eyes finally lift and see.

He moves on instinct. Sherlock is clutching his nose and coughing blood before Tanner has time to react. Q's knuckles are bleeding as he grabs Sherlock's collar to hit him again, but he is spun and pinned against the wall. A pale hand wraps around his throat, squeezing like a vice. Q drives his knee up between Sherlock's legs even as he reaches for his eyes, only satisfied when he is released and Sherlock has bent in half, bracing himself on the wall.

"Gentlemen, what is going on—"

"You're supposed to be dead," Q snaps over Tanner. He wants to spit. He wants to hurt him, to know he has been hurt. Q isn't sure he has the right—has ever had the right—but it's still true.

"Life is just full of disappointment."

"Does he know?" There is only one he. There only ever has been. It feels like nightmare déjà vu.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"It's best to be honest with these things."

"Are we going to have a problem here?" Tanner steps between them, looking warily from one to the other. There is blood pooling in Sherlock's hands. Q rubs his neck absently as he turns away, returning to his keyboard.

"I'm certain of it. When does he start?"

"It's already in motion," Tanner says, handing him a thick file folder, and he glances between the two men again. "Is there anything I need to know?"

Q looks to Sherlock once more and the man meets his eyes. There's no apology coming, from either of them.

"Nothing of consequence."

 

~~~

 

Sherlock presents the passport with a practiced sigh. His passport, he corrects himself each time he thinks of it. Q had pressed it into his hands, along with a briefcase, a gun, and his plane ticket. It won't be enough, but it is something.

The border guard isn't even reading as he flips to the proper page, scans it, and glances at his screen. His face says he was hoping for an interesting one. Sherlock can sympathize with his disappointment.

 _Sympathy, that's a new one._ John's voice is a whisper he mostly blocks out. John is gone. He has made sure of it. He doesn't think about it anymore, but he hasn't deleted it.

The border guard stamps the passport and slides it back over to him, already looking over Sherlock's shoulder for the next in line.

"Welcome to America, Mr. Moriarty. Enjoy your trip."

And then he is lost in the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic. Much admiration to you folks who do this all the time. Thanks to orciny for the beta and not telling me this idea was nonsense. Let me know if there are any typos or things I should be tagging for. For those who think a three way AU is ridiculous, well, you're probably right. 
> 
> For a fun reminder of the joys (pains) of Closer, check out the movie review by Rogert Ebert:  
> http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/closer-2004
> 
> For those trying to remember characters from Closer (2004), the characters are as follows:
> 
> Alice (Natalie Portman) = Sherlock  
> Anna (Julia Roberts) = Q  
> Dan (Jude Law) = John  
> Larry (Clive Owen) = James


End file.
